


The Small Hours (Ch4)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Watson, Canon Compliant, Choking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, M/M, Nightmares, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sherlock Wearing A Sheet, Sleep, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Spooning, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John’s worst nightmare is Sherlock dying. When he has this terrible dream, he yells Sherlock’s name in the middle of the night. Sherlock comes to the rescue, dressed in just a sheet.





	The Small Hours (Ch4)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.  
> Written for Tumblr's September Challenge "Sleep"
> 
> Takes place after the events of S1 E3, Mid S2 E1

 

 

221B Baker Street was bathed in darkness at two in the morning, the faint sounds of sparse traffic were only  interrupted by an occasional police siren in the distance. Otherwise, the house was quiet. After the recent and thoroughly exhausting case, everyone was asleep. 

“Sherlock!”  

John’s own scream woke him up. He sat up in the bed, panting, his heart furiously trying to escape from his chest. There was a bomb strapped to his body; it was heavy, with wires going in several directions. Judging from the sparse knowledge he possessed, the bomb was very deadly as well as firmly attached to John.  

He had made peace a long time ago with the fact that he may not die of old age, but this wasn’t about him. Sherlock was there, right in front of him, and was about to die. John had done all he could to make sure Sherlock was safe; he had told him to run, to save himself, but he had failed. Sherlock was dead. The only consolation was, that John was dead, too.  

John’s chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. The excruciating pain made John touch it, still in a haze, to check if there wasn’t a hole in his sternum. Thankfully it was just a dream. 

“John?” came a muffled voice from behind the bedroom door, followed by a knock. 

“Come in,” John croaked, his throat dry and raw from the scream. The door swung open and Sherlock barged into the room, his eyes weary, hair standing out in all directions, and body wrapped in just a sheet. John immediately felt more awake. Sherlock’s bare feet made a soft padding sound as he expeditiously went to the window, looked around the room, and then paused to assess John. The street lamps from behind the half-closed curtain were bathing Sherlock in eerily ethereal light, making him seem like an aristocratic apparition.  

“I’m fine. It was just-” John was still massaging the pain in his chest. 

“A nightmare?” 

“Yeah. Sorry for waking you up.” 

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal, then sat on the very edge of the mattress and ruffled his hair. John pulled himself straighter on the bed making sure the lower half of his body remained under covers. His still foggy mind barely registered that Sherlock was sitting on his bed, his back to John, and with only a single piece of fabric covering him. 

“Are you sure, you’re alright?” Sherlock asked without turning around. John nodded in response even though Sherlock couldn’t see him. “Then I’ll go,” Sherlock started to get up. 

“No,” came out of John’s mouth before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat, he didn’t want to sound needy. “Just stay. Talk to me. About anything.” 

Silence.  

Suddenly, the awareness of what he asked hit John and, despite his inner longing, he started to backpedal his plea. “I mean, it would be easier for me to fall back to sleep, but you should go to bed. Your bed. You need the rest after that last case.”  

Silence.  

Then Sherlock half turned, pulling his left leg on the bed, resulting in the sheet falling open to reveal Sherlock’s sinewy arm. John was certain Sherlock heard the audible gulp coming from him. Then Sherlock looked to the ceiling with eyes closed; he was thinking. What could he possibly be thinking of so hard in the small hours of the morning?  

“The last case you wrote up in your blog, about the rugby player,-” started Sherlock, returning from somewhere in his head.  

“The Missing Three-Quarter?” John supplied. 

“Yes. Couldn’t you have come up with a better title?” Sherlock was always so critical of the blog but he read every single entry the moment it was posted. Each time he pointed out all the inconsistencies to John. Once, it was the way Sherlock expressed himself in the story. Another time, it was a whole string of events whose existence Sherlock denied. Recurrently, he just didn’t like how John was ‘inflicting his opinions on the world.’   

“Is that what you want to talk about?” John was a little annoyed now, realising that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to make him forget about the nightmare. He might just want to throttle Sherlock in reality.  

“No,” Sherlock said a little sheepishly, apparently catching on to John’s mood shift.  

That was one of many amazing things about him; it was incredible how spectacularly ignorant Sherlock was about some things. He never paid attention to other people’s feelings, and always said the wrong thing at the wrong time when it came to someone’s emotional wellbeing. However, he was so different with John. He was paying attention, monitoring, as if he was purposefully teaching himself how to react to John’s moods and feelings. That was especially true when they were alone. Whether it was during breakfast paper reading or afternoon tea, Sherlock seemed to watch John and register his responses. Often enough, John felt like the subject of a psychological experiment and wondered if Sherlock had a room for his findings in the Mind Palace. Or maybe that wasn’t how the mind palace worked at all. 

“It just reminded me of something I read in the paper when I was 14 and it intrigued me then...” Sherlock continued talking.  

Over time, they changed topics and soon they were laughing over a prank they had pulled last week. John almost felt bad for Anderson. Almost. He was furious, but even Lestrade had admitted it was a good one; after all, he had filmed it on his phone. 

Mid-conversation, Sherlock moved over to sit next to John on the bed. John was still under the covers, the lower part of his body absorbing the warmth and comfort of the duvet on which Sherlock sat, his legs crossed at the ankles. The night was chilly; one of those when it’s too warm yet to turn on the heating but cold and damp enough to feel it in your bones. Customarily, it had been raining all day. The engaging conversation and occasional laugh resulted in time flying by quickly. At one point, John noticed that Sherlock looked paler than usual, even in the dim light of the night lamp as he huddled under his sheet.  

“Are you cold?”  

John saw that even Sherlock’s hands were shaking slightly. “Jeezus, why didn’t you say anything, just...” John realised what he was about to offer and paused to meet Sherlock’s gaze, “...climb under the covers,” he finished, his voice softening as he tried to judge Sherlock’s reaction.  

He hesitated, looked at John with slightly furrowed brows, but slid under said covers, icy feet first. After the initial awkward moment had passed, they continued talking, each propped on an arm until one or both started to fall asleep. It might have been John, as he still listened to Sherlock’s baritone voice when his eyes were already closed. 

_ _ _ 

 

John wiggled closer to the enticing warmth in front of him and spooned, his arm wrapping around... 

He startled awake but didn’t move so as not to wake up Sherlock. The manly musk enticed John’s half-asleep senses.  

Oh bugger, like the healthy specimen of a man that he was, John was sporting a boner. One which was situated close enough to Sherlock that he was definitely aware of it.  

“It bothers you,” Sherlock’s low voice pierced the silence. John felt his cheeks heat and he cleared his throat, not trusting his voice. 

“What is?”  

“The fact that you’re aroused,” the steady voice informed him. 

“Umm...” John rapidly took his hand off Sherlock and moved back.  

“John, I’m flattered, but...” Sherlock started to say. 

“No, no, that’s not because... I mean...” Lies. Of course, it was because of the impossible proximity to the ultimate subject of John’s unfulfilled desires lying casually two inches from him.  

“That’s why I shouldn’t have stayed,” the composed way it was said both confused and scared John. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“You see but you do not observe, John,” Sherlock moved swiftly out of the bed and wrapped himself in the sheet he came in. “I’m not saying I didn't want to stay,” his eyes scanned John from head to the duvet, “I’m saying I shouldn’t have. Because if we lay longer like this, I’m afraid you wouldn't like what I’d want to do to you.” 

Now it was time for John to be speechless.  _Did he mean...? Oh God. What did he mean exactly?_  John’s mind reeled in confusion. His vocal cords made the decision for him. “I was a soldier, remember, I can handle more than you think,” well that was a poor choice of words. _John, you idiot._  

The rise of one side of Sherlock’s lips in a smile confirmed it and he didn’t look disappointed. He looked hungry, predatory, and utterly magnificent as he started crawling towards John. The sheet was slowly falling back as Sherlock moved forward, revealing a glorious expanse of porcelain skin. The movements of Sherlock’s rhomboids on his shoulder blades and the graceful, but powerful body reminded John of a video he saw of a Bengal tiger stalking his prey.  

John had seen Sherlock naked before, but he had been huddled, embarrassed, and had had no desire to be seen.  

This, he chose to do, to reveal himself to his flatmate. John was suddenly aware that his breathing quickened and maybe, just maybe he was ready to fall prey today. He was definitely developing a Sherlock-in-a-sheet fetish. Although, Sherlock-without-a-sheet worked just as well, John thought darting his tongue over his lower lip as the sheet hit the floor.  

John’s impatience reached its zenith and he moved, meeting Sherlock halfway, taking a hold of him, and rolling them both so that John was on top. He traced his fingertips along the detective’s forearms until he could interlock their fingers. It was the sight of their hands joined, more than the fact that he was dressed while sitting on a naked Sherlock, that had a profound impact on John. This was the moment he was going to remember for the rest of his life, the simple gesture that conveyed mountains of meaning. What if they held hands like that in public? On the street, just casually walking together?  

Their gazes met and an unspoken conversation passed between them. The question, the hesitation, the admission and the agreement; all wrapped in a thin veil of arousal. 

John could keep Sherlock pinned down if he wanted, he was aware of that, but he wasn’t sure either one of them was on board with that dynamic. 

“I will never hurt you. You know that, right?” John had to say the words aloud to ensure Sherlock understood. 

“I know,” came the quick and sure reply. 

The slight thrust of Sherlock’s hips caused John to look between them, where John’s boxer shorts met Sherlock’s erection lying heavily on his stomach. It made a small twitch and John had to suppress a giggle. Sherlock didn’t, and his low chuckle filled the room.   

At that moment, John wondered if Sherlock knew how much he affected John; if he even was aware of how handsome he was. How handsome he looked in John’s bed, with tousled hair and his porcelain skin stretched over lean muscle. But it was the open expression on Sherlock’s face, so different than the mask he wore on a daily basis, that was making John’s heart rate spike. 

When on a case, Sherlock always asked John to talk to the ladies, but if he just applied his acting skills and combined them with those godlike looks, he’d get a dead woman to confess.  

Except her, The Woman.  

The moment she barged into their lives, something changed in Sherlock. The sizzling dynamic between Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes was unlike anything John would ever have associated with the detective. As if he looked up to her, or was searching for something she had and John didn’t.   

He realized he was making a rumbling sound in his chest thinking of Sherlock with a woman; with anyone else but him.  

“Take it off,” Sherlock’s commanding tone cut through John’s thoughts as he pointed to John’s plain grey t-shirt, and it hit him like a flash of hot air. John shed the t-shirt like it was on fire and he was rewarded with a wicked smile from his detective before he felt a gentle but needy caress on his thighs.  

Sherlock’s large soft hands, so different from John’s calloused ones, started at John’s knees, burning their way up the goosebumped skin. John’s own palms started exploring Sherlock’s abdomen, sliding over the velvet skin up to Sherlock’s ribs until his thumbs slid over the nipples. Sherlock’s mouth opened in a silent gasp before he grabbed John’s waist and rolled them over, switching positions.  

The state of extreme arousal made John’s body sensitive even to the slightest movement Sherlock made, as he reached over John to the bedside table, not wasting any time. 

“You told me you kept them,” Sherlock teased as a pair of handcuffs he had pulled from the drawer dangled from his index finger. John didn’t resist when his arms were handcuffed to the metal headboard. He trusted Sherlock. Nevertheless, the slight panic in his system was unmistakable. He pulled on the handcuffs as irrational fear swept over him; he was helpless like this. 

 “Can you handle this?” were Sherlock’s whispered words as he leaned over to kiss him. The brush of lips was very soft, almost careful, ending with a tiny nip of John’s lip. John nodded in lieu of the answer, the fear melting into anticipation. “John,” Sherlock’s voice became serious, “when you want me to stop, say,-” 

“Vatican Cameos,” John replied quickly. Sherlock smiled and placed a kiss on John’s collarbone before he continued. 

“That will do. Use it. Don’t overthink it. If you do, it means you don’t really want to continue. I don’t want you to do anything that doesn’t bring you pleasure...  

“I trust you, Sherlock.” John whispered and he was certain that for a millisecond there was a flash of surprise on his friend’s face. John was ready for whatever Sherlock was about to do to him. The detective was good at keeping a tight rein on his emotions and apparently his desires as well. It was driving John crazy right now. Impatience made him tug on the handcuffs, but he couldn't get closer.  

“Hmmm, so eager,” the lascivious words in his ear sent a shiver through John, right down to his groin. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so aroused. Sherlock was so apathetic about sexual responses on a daily basis, that his vehement behaviour now was all the more seductive.  

Sherlock wrenched a loud moan out of John with a ferocious bite on his trapezius followed by a tender kiss. The sensation starting at John’s neck wasn’t dissimilar to a fork being stuck in a socket, resulting in John’s body arching on the mattress. John knew he would be marked and that thought only made him want more. He wanted Sherlock to brand his skin with his hot mouth. 

Sherlock pressed a series of feverish kisses down John’s body, the collarbones, and the sternum. Sherlock did his research, John thought as he was being subjected to more sensual nips, bites and... 

 “Oh God!” John’s whole body spasmed when Sherlock bit his nipple. Hard. The other nipple bite wasn’t a surprise and the initial hurt was followed by such pleasure that it made it more gratifying. Sherlock lifted his gaze to John’s, the array of emotions so unlike Sherlock’s usual expression, it made John question everything he knew about the man. If what John saw was what was usually hidden so well under the mask of poised sophistication, no wonder Sherlock was so frustratingly annoying.  

The longing written on John’s face gave permission to further explorations as Sherlock placed a kiss on John’s bullet scar on the arm while still holding his gaze.  

Lust.  

That was what overtook Sherlock’s expression. He moved lower, making a pattern of reverent nibbles until he reached John’s happy trail of hair. John let his eyelids close in a flutter; he couldn’t look into Sherlock’s eyes now. He was embarrassed. It was too intense, felt too good... He felt a bite on his inner thigh then.  

“Ouch!” 

“Look at me John. I want you to see what I’m doing to you. I want to see if you can still take it,” Sherlock rasped, his voice dripping with desire.  

“Yes,” John was panting now. “I swear I’m gonna punch you if you don’t continue.” 

In one swift motion Sherlock removed John’s boxer-briefs, spread John’s legs and nestled himself between them. Sherlock’s fingers were caressing John’s inner thighs, massaging the sensitive skin, making John moan in anticipation as he held Sherlock’s lustful stare. 

John had slept with many women, experienced his share of blowjobs, but he had never felt like he did now. It wasn’t just lust he felt, the desire went deeper, but he wasn’t able to identify it yet. He had always been aware that Sherlock was a handsome man, but right now Sherlock’s flushed face and dishevelled hair were the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.  

A light flick of Sherlock’s tongue on John’s balls sent the latter’s eyes rolling back in pleasure. John was extremely strung-out now, he felt like a ticking bomb about to blow. Sherlock was a tease, his breath was so close, John could feel it on his skin but he wanted more, he needed... 

“More...” John’s word was barely a whisper. 

“More, what?” 

“More of that...” John moaned but nothing happened. He looked down at Sherlock who just waited between his spread legs, the look of playfulness mixed with carnal desire played on his face.  _W_ _hat was he waiting for?_  The anticipation was going to kill John if he was going to wait a second longer but then it dawned on him. “More...please?” 

Sherlock smiled wickedly before engulfing John’s cock in his mouth so deep John felt his glans hitting the back of the detective’s throat. The mere sight of his cock disappearing into Sherlock’s mouth threatened to make him explode. There hadn’t been a woman who could take all of him all the way. Sherlock had to shift a little to make his throat open to fit John deep into it. And it was glorious. John could feel the tip of him being constricted between Sherlock’s pharyngeal muscles until his lips touched John’s pubic bone.   

The impossible heat of Sherlock’s lips, the gentle strokes of John’s balls and thighs made John’s senses scatter like an overturned jar of marbles. The handcuffs made a rattling sound again as John arched to push his hips upward. He didn’t mind the handcuffs now, rather enjoyed them really, but he wished he could touch Sherlock’s hair. The thick black curls that tickled his abdomen oh so sweetly.  

Sherlock’s mouth went torturously slow up John’s cock, his tongue doing a swirl under the glans that made John see whole constellations of stars. A low growl accompanied Sherlock’s movements and the vibrations it created on John were beyond incredible. Then he pulled almost all the way up and sucked the glans making slow flicks on the frenulum.  

John was incredibly close, oh God, so close. He felt his balls tighten and the man between his legs must possess mind reading capabilities because he gently stroked them as he released John’s cock with an audible pop, leaving him desolate. 

“Not yet,” Sherlock’s baritone informed him and John’s body listened, retreating from the edge. 

Cool air in place of heat made John shiver until Sherlock’s hand took the place of his mouth and his head bent lower to apply his skilful tongue to his sac. John groaned in pleasure, but stiffened just a second later when Sherlock licked his arsehole while still pumping John’s erection. 

All sensation ceased causing John to release a groan of frustration. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asked in all seriousness, his eyes assessing. 

“No, of course not!” John protested letting his legs fall open, asking for more of the unfamiliar but so very welcome sensation. 

A sheen of cold sweat broke on his forehead but John was ready for what might happen next. Sherlock’s eyes were still on him, watchful, and when John gave a small nod Sherlock continued. The unhurried, gentle licks were followed with some pressure from his tongue. It was a bizarre feeling at first but so pleasurable that John had no choice but to give in. With each lick, John’s arousal was building up and he moaned a string of incoherent words praising his detective’s mouth, his tongue and his wicked brain. 

Just when John was getting used to the idea, Sherlock stopped and fumbled with a small bottle. It was probably the lube that John kept next to the handcuffs. He stiffened again at the foreign touch in a no longer exit-only area. It felt so big that John squirmed in trepidation.  

“Relax, John, it's a finger,” the smile in Sherlock’s voice made John release a small laugh which quickly turned into gasp when Sherlock started working in another heavily lubricated finger. “Do you still want it, John?” 

“Yes,” he exhaled the word rather than said it. The only issue John had with that statement was that he didn’t want ‘it’; John wanted ‘him’, his detective. 

He wanted Sherlock.  

The same man, who now moved up to lay on top of him, trapping both of their cocks between their bodies in a frottage dance. Sherlock’s fingers reached John’s prostate and massaged gently, maintaining the tortuous rhythm in and out of his body. John had had no idea that fingers inside him could feel so good, that Sherlock’s name was on his lips over and over again.  

With every thrust of Sherlock’s fingers, every rub of Sherlock’s body on top of him, John was getting closer to falling off the edge of ecstasy. Sherlock’s free hand moved to John’s throat applying slight pressure as he whispered huskily,  

“Come for me, John,” and as if a string holding John was released, his body tensed and let go, the extensive stimuli causing his orgasm to slam into him. There was only one word tearing its way from John’s throat, 

“Sherlock...SHERLOCK!” 

_ _ _ 

 

John’s own scream woke him up. It was just a dream. Glorious and erotic, but unfortunately just a dream. The disappointment in John’s head was mixed with imaginary post-coital bliss. 

“John?” came a voice from right in front of him on the bed. John gasped audibly, finally opening his eyes as he realized that he must have passed out from the intensity of his orgasm. It hadn't been a dream after all. Sherlock must have removed the handcuffs because John’s hands were free. Free to... 

“Come here,” rasped John, already wrapping himself around his detective lying with his back to him. John rested his palm on Sherlock’s chest, registering the even rhythm of his detective’s breathing, the warmth of the body in front of his own and the reality of having Sherlock in his bed.  

John fell asleep within seconds, and it was the soundest sleep he had had in years.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Music:  
> [In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning by Frank Sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqCLsp5owY8)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
